


Again, Again

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7739107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This lockdown drivin’ you mad, too?” he says instead of <i>Hey, I liked it when you kissed me, thought maybe we could do it again and a bit more besides.</i></p><p>--</p><p>Five times McCree kissed Hanzo, and one time Hanzo kissed him instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Again, Again

**Author's Note:**

> A cheesy 5+1 because I just love writing kisses.
> 
> Like.
> 
> A lot.

**I.**

“I’ll get you this time, Lúcio!”

“No way, man. I am the reigning  _ champion _ .”

“Not for long!”

McCree sips his beer as he listens to Lena and Lúcio bicker cheerfully over their video game. It’s some sort of racing game, that’s all he knows--a predictable fit for their competition, really. It’s amusing to watch them play, shoving at each other and tossing around good-natured insults. The friendly camaraderie reminds McCree of older times, when he was the young one that the team watched act like a goofy child while they looked on with amusement. He settles into his seat on the couch, sighing as the cushion eases the strain off his lower back. 

Beside him, tucked into the corner of the couch, Hanzo sips periodically from his  _ sake _ gourd, quiet but smiling. He’s wearing a sinfully tight cotton t-shirt and loose trousers, relaxed by the alcohol and the satisfaction of a mission well done. McCree keeps finding his gaze drawn back to Hanzo, each time having to force himself to be less obvious. 

The post-mission celebration’s starting to wind down now-- the four of them are the only ones left. Mercy had begged off an hour ago to go to bed, and Torbjörn and Reinhardt had been talking about cards and stronger beer before they wandered away.  The mission itself had been difficult but almost perfectly executed--there was some concern about witnesses, but Winston and Athena were combing over that right now. Regardless, any mission that ended with no casualties and and managed to accomplish its objective was a resounding success. 

“You did some sharp shootin’ today,” McCree says, glancing over at Hanzo. “We wouldn’t have done half as well without you there.”

Hanzo smirks behind his gourd. “And I daresay you were passable.”

McCree kicks Hanzo in the shin playfully. “Most people just say thanks.” 

“Perhaps they do.” Hanzo’s smirk only widens. McCree shakes his head. 

“Unbelievable.” He finishes his beer with a chuckle. 

Before Hanzo can respond, their conversation is interrupted by an overdramatic, jaw-cracking yawn from Lena. “I give up,” she announces, dropping her controller on the coffee table, “and I’m knackered. Time for bed.”

“Yeah, same,” Lúcio adds, getting to his feet. He stretches his arms behind his back, adding, “I’ve defended my title well enough for the night.”

“Oi, I’ll get you next time!” Lena laughs, punching Lúcio’s shoulder. 

McCree reaches for another beer, hiding his smile. A glance over at Hanzo reveals that he’s just as amused, listening to the two younger members of the team. 

“Night, lads!” Lena chirps, and keeps up a steady stream of chatter with Lúcio as they leave the room, despite her previous declaration of exhaustion.

With their departure, McCree and Hanzo are the only ones remaining from the impromptu party. Neither is willing to go to bed quite yet, so they stay up awhile longer: bantering and teasing, trading stories from their younger days, lamenting the easy, carefree nature of childhood that they never quite had, but that their teammates collectively exude in spades. 

Hanzo hasn’t been part of Overwatch for long, but lately he’s begun to find his place in the team and, slowly but surely, open up to the possibility of genuine friendship. McCree secretly treasures the role that he’s played in being Hanzo’s first friend on the team--the first to crack through the bitter, angry shell, offering understanding and a lack of judgement for the sins of the past. As he watches Hanzo next to him, gesturing as he talks about something or another, McCree feels a wave of affection--not entirely platonic--come over him.

He wishes he could blame the beer for what he does next, but in reality, that has little to do with it at all.

Hanzo’s lips under his are firm and unresponsive, frozen with shock. McCree exhales softly, presses in again, keeping the kiss light: an invitation, rather than a demand. His wild beard scrapes gently against the Hanzo’s much neater one as he pulls back.

Hanzo stares at him, eyes wide. His  _ sake _ gourd is still halfway raised to his mouth, hovering at shoulder-level in a white-knuckled grip. McCree is smiling when he pulls away, but the alarmed look on Hanzo’s face slowly worms through the haze of the alcohol and he realizes, with dawning horror, what he just did.

He just kissed a man who makes a point of being untouchable.

“Aw, shit,” he groans, sitting back. “I’m sorry, Hanzo, that was stupid. Forget it.” He wipes his hand down his face, an embarrassed flush creeping into his cheeks. “Shit. That was stupid.”

“You kissed me,” Hanzo says, as though McCree were unaware.

“Yeah, I did. I’m drunker’n I thought I was. Sorry.” 

Hanzo’s expression shifts. He tilts his head at a thoughtful angle. “Many people say that you do while drunk what you only think of doing while sober,” he says.

“Uh.” This is not a conversation McCree wants to have--not now, not ever. He can handle being turned down, that’s nothing new, but he has a feeling that Hanzo will be more scathing than any cute girl in a bar could be. He had meant to keep his sad pining locked up and under control, but apparently it had managed to slip its restraints. Happy and laughing, sprawled in the corner of the couch in the empty rec room and finally relaxed in the safety of a comfortable, closed space, Hanzo had just been too much to resist.

Hanzo sets his drink on the coffee table, his gaze never leaving McCree’s face. McCree takes a long swig from his drink to steel his nerves, waiting for the inevitable outburst. 

Hanzo turns, rests his arm against the back of the couch, and kisses him. It’s almost a perfect mirror of the kiss he received from McCree: a closed-mouth little press, gently cradling McCree’s lower lip between his own, a tiny noise when they separate. The alcohol in McCree’s system makes the whole thing take on a dreamy quality--he feels like he’s literally floating on cloud nine. 

“Do not apologize,” Hanzo murmurs, grazing his fingertips along McCree’s jaw. 

“Sure thing,” McCree replies, a giddy, crooked smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. Hanzo smiles, too, taking back his hand but not moving away.

They each go to bed alone that night, separating a short time later and making their tipsy ways back to their individual dorms, but McCree  doesn’t mind. He thinks he could survive for a week on just the memory of sweet, chaste kisses and heady affection.

 

**II.**

Winston has instructed Overwatch to lay low for two weeks. They have to tread carefully, tiptoeing around the UN and the PETRAS Act. Their last mission in Numbani went well, but was noticed by a dozen civilians, and now they have to lock down while they watch the media and make sure that everything stays attributed to a group of well-meaning vigilantes. 

McCree hates it. He’s never been one for standing around while there’s work to be done. He appreciates the value of a good vacation, but the lockdown has left him restless and ready to shoot the walls. The rest of the team is feeling it, too. Lena goes running daily and comes back complaining of seeing the same old cliffs every time; Reinhardt itches for a new battle, reminiscing about old fights as he polishes his Crusader armor yet again; even Winston, ever the recluse, grumbles about the media circus he’s been trapped in, and dreams of testing out the modifications on his Tesla gun.

Hanzo is the only one who seems to be unaffected, but that could be because McCree barely sees him for the first five days. 

Since those alcohol-infused kisses the week before, Hanzo seems to be making an effort not to be caught in the same room as McCree for more than a few minutes. When they are together, it’s as part of a group, and their interactions are all business and short, clipped conversations. McCree aches to get him alone and try to press further on their relationship--whatever that may be right now--but he can never seem to find Hanzo outside of a group setting. When the man doesn’t want to be found, he simply won’t be. 

On the sixth day of the lockdown is when he finally corners Hanzo in the kitchen. Hanzo has a cup of tea on the counter in front of him, the string of the tea bag wrapped around his finger.  He’s staring into the cup as though he was distracted halfway through the process--or perhaps just trying to get the tea to steep faster by sheer force of will. McCree clears his throat to announce his presence, and Hanzo’s head whips up toward to the sound.

“Howdy,” McCree says with a jaunty little wave. Hanzo’s tense shoulders relax in recognition. “Haven’t seen you much ‘round these parts lately.”

Hanzo shrugs one shoulder, returning his attention to his tea. He unwinds the string from his finger, then winds it again, fidgeting with the bag. 

McCree moves to lean on the counter beside him. Part of him feels ridiculous, like he’s chasing after a schoolyard crush for a bit of attention, but they’re grown men. They should be able to talk about this, and if McCree is anything, he isn’t a coward. 

“This lockdown drivin’ you mad, too?” he says instead of  _ Hey, I liked it when you kissed me, thought maybe we could do it again and bit more besides. _

“It is wearing on my nerves,” Hanzo admits. “But patience is key. If the world is to accept Overwatch again, we cannot blunder into it. Winston is correct--we must be strategic.”

“Well, yeah, but still. I hate bein’ all cooped up in here with nothin’ to do. Got all this energy to burn off and nothin’ to use it on. ”  McCree feigns an innocent look as he adds, “Well. I can think of a  _ few _ things, but they usually require another person.”

Hanzo side-eyes him. McCree smiles guilelessly. “Crude,” Hanzo says, pulling the teabag out of his cup and tossing it into the trash.

“Aw, c’mon, I’m just playin’. I mean, I wouldn’t say  _ no _ , but--”

“Is there a point to this tangent, or are you just bad at jokes?”

“Yeah, actually.” McCree stands up straight and takes a deep breath. “You’ve barely talked to me since the other night. I don’t know about you, but after I kiss someone like that, I usually like to follow-up on it in some way or another.”

Hanzo’s expression gives away nothing. “And?”

“And--?” McCree sputters. “What is there to ‘and’ about? You’re the one who’s been avoidin’ me!”

“Yet, here I am.” Hanzo smirks faintly. McCree feels like he missed the last step on the way down a flight of stairs: confused, off-balance, and heading for serious injury if he doesn’t react properly. 

“Okay, well, fine,” he says indignantly. “Fine! Let me put it this way: I’d really like to kiss ya again. Is that something you’d like, too, or should I screw off?”

Now Hanzo is the one who looks surprised and uncertain. McCree leans his hip against the counter and waits for an answer while Hanzo blinks at his tea, evidently trying to formulate a response. 

“Yes,” he eventually says. 

“Yes, I should screw off?” 

“Yes, I would like you to do it again.”

“Oh, well.” McCree stands up again, fixing a charming smile on his face. All he needed was a clear answer, and now that he has one, he can change tack entirely. “I can definitely arrange that.” 

He insinuates himself in Hanzo’s space, backing the man into the corner where the countertop changes direction. “And more, if you like,” he adds, reveling in the sharp intake of breath he hears Hanzo take. Before Hanzo can respond, McCree swoops down and steals a kiss.

He starts out careful, a fairly chaste press, waiting to see how Hanzo responds. Hanzo’s lips tighten under his: a tentative answer. McCree slips his hands to Hanzo’s waist and gently pulls him forward, letting their chests brush. Hanzo drag the backs of his knuckles slowly up the front of his shirt, which is all the encouragement McCree needs to tilt his head, change the angle, and deepen the kiss. Their lips slide together as Hanzo becomes more involved, matching McCree move-for-move. McCree tries not to smile too hard and fails, breaking the kiss with a pleased chuckle.

“What is so funny?” Hanzo asks, brow crinkling with confusion. The palest of pink flushes has risen to the crests of his cheekbones, and McCree has to fight not to stare.

“Nothin’,” McCree says truthfully. “Nothin’ at all.” 

He bends back down to resume their kiss, flicking the tip of his tongue playfully against the seam of Hanzo’s lips and biting back a groan when he feels Hanzo do the same. He wraps his arms fully around Hanzo’s back and pulls their bodies flush, and they just continue on, standing in the corner of the kitchen where anybody could see, sunlight streaming through the window over the industrial sink to wrap around their entwined bodies. McCree knows they should stop before someone walks in but he can’t, and neither, it seems, can Hanzo. 

The cup of tea grows cold on the counter, forgotten for better things.

 

**III.**

McCree wakes to bright Gibraltar sunlight streaming through a crack in his blinds. The sunshine is normal. Being in a position for it to slant directly across his eyes is not. He groans and turns over, out of the damned light, only to awkwardly roll into another body. He cracks his eyes open and is greeted by the sight of an intricate, winding tattoo over a muscular arm, and dark hair draped  over strong shoulders.

He pauses for a long moment while the observation penetrates his sleepy, half-awake trance, until he recalls the events of the previous night. A bit of competitive shooting with Hanzo, unwinding with a bottle of truly awful wine dug up from the pantry, nearly getting caught making out in the dining hall, and then stumbling into his room with their hands practically down each other pants. What followed had been a spectacular, if short-lived, round of frottage that left them both exhausted , sated, and on McCree’s part, feeling damn good about life as a whole. 

McCree stretches, listening to the symphony of cracking joints that is middle age, and props himself up on his arm to look at his bedmate. Hanzo is still asleep, oblivious to McCree. He breathes deeply through parted lips, blanket drawn tight around his shoulders, hair in disarray. McCree is surprised by just how young Hanzo looks before it hits him--this is what a peaceful Hanzo looks like. 

He thinks he might not mind waking up to this more often. 

He gives in to the urge to touch, sidling up to press his chest against Hanzo’s back and slide a hand over his hip under the covers. Hanzo, ever the light sleeper, stirs immediately, shifting back towards the source of warmth. 

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” McCree murmurs. He trails his lips along the outer shell of Hanzo’s ear, making the man squirm.

“Good morning,” Hanzo rumbles. He tugs the blanket tighter over his shoulder. “I am surprised to see you awake before me.”

“Mm, most mornings I don’t have all this in my bed,” McCree says. He continues his exploration of Hanzo’s flank and chest, eventually settling with his hand pressed flat over his stomach. “Gotta appreciate it while I can.”

Hanzo chuckles as he rolls onto his other side so he can face McCree, tucking an arm under his head. He’s so soft in the morning, mussed and sleepy, skin dappled by that damn sunlight that’s sneaking in through the blinds. McCree is momentarily left breathless.

_ Oh, I’m in trouble _ , he thinks, but somehow, he feels just fine. 

“And?” Hanzo prompts. “Is ‘all of this’ to your satisfaction?” His grin is playful, stretching slow across his face, as he gestures down his blanket-covered body.

“See, now you’re just fishin’ for compliments.”

“I hardly have to fish. You have rarely had a thought that you do not voice, including compliments.”

“Ouch, darlin’, that stings.” McCree dramatically touches the back of his hand to his brow, the image of a swooning Southern belle. “And here I thought we had something special.”

Hanzo snorts. “Now who is fishing?” 

McCree laughs. Without thinking, like a comfortable instinct born from years of familiar intimacy, he leans down for a kiss. Hanzo responds immediately, head tilted up. It’s chaste but pleasant: the first sleepy, affectionate kiss of the morning, lips closed against the threat of morning breath. He cups Hanzo’s face in his hand and feels Hanzo’s fall on his ribs. It’s so easy, as though they’ve woken up to a hundred other mornings just like this: wrapped up in each other, teasing and kissing and taking their sweet time before getting on with the work day.

Their lips part and then Hanzo abruptly shoves at his shoulder. “Ugh, you taste disgusting,” he groans. “Go brush your teeth.”

“Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not much better.” Hanzo shoves him again, pushing him toward the edge of the narrow bed. McCree laughs as he rolls onto his feet, turning back and extending a hand to Hanzo to bring him along.

Their morning routines are completed side-by-side in McCree’s small en-suite bathroom, filled with mirth and teasing bumps of their hips as they fight for space in front of the mirror. McCree can’t remember the last time he had something like this, so playful and content. 

He drags Hanzo into another quick kiss, this time flavored with mint toothpaste and pleased laughter, and wonders if he could have this every day.

 

**IV.**

Tonight is one of the rare nights where McCree feels genuinely melancholy. They’re infrequent, moreso now that Overwatch has started and he has something to occupy his days, but they are still present. He won’t be good company tonight, so he takes dinner on his own--a sandwich that eventually is abandoned, half-eaten, on his bedside table--and makes his way out to the skybridge. 

The bridge is one of his favorite places on the Watchpoint. He has old, fond memories of sitting here late at night, smoking cigarillos and making conversation with whoever might listen that evening. Those were relaxed times, even when he was with Blackwatch and more of his days were hell than not. Perhaps it’s that old sense of comfort that still draws McCree to the skybridge five years later, or just habit, but he always finds himself walking the familiar path, up old steps and around new stacks of crates, when he needs an hour or two alone. 

He sits with his back to a tarp-covered crate, his trusty flask of whiskey, and a cigarillo between his teeth. He sips whiskey between mouthfuls of smoke, watches the stars twinkle overhead, and tries to ignore the thoughts running through his head.

After half an hour, when his cigarillo has burned down to the stub and he’s thinking about another, he hears the gentle taps of metal-booted feet behind him. He looks up into Hanzo’s concerned face.

“May I join you?” Hanzo asks. McCree scoots over to make room. Hanzo sits with his arm pressed up against McCree’s, making a solid line of warmth to counteract the chilly night air.

“I did not see you at dinner,” Hanzo says mildly, neither accusing nor demanding. Dinner was not always a group affair, but McCree was known to frequent the dining table most evenings regardless. 

“No,” McCree answers simply. 

“Is something the matter?”

McCree doesn’t know how to answer. “Not so much,” he eventually says. He takes another draw of whiskey. “Not any one thing, anyway. Just got some stuff runnin’ through my head. Needed some time alone.”

“Would you like me to go?”

“No,” McCree says again. He’s surprised by his own answer. Hanzo just nods and pulls up his knees, crossing his arms atop them. 

They sit together in silence for awhile. Hanzo is a quiet, comforting presence. He knows the value of time to think, and does not press for details about McCree’s mental state. McCree eventually puts aside his whiskey, feeling guilty for drinking himself further into a haze while Hanzo sits sober beside him. He takes out another cigarillo but doesn’t light it, fidgeting with it between his fingers.

“Sometimes,” he says, after ten or so minutes have passed, “I just start rememberin’ what this place used to be like. How I got here.”

Hanzo tilts his head, a wordless confirmation that he is listening. McCree continues, “ I’unno. Most days I’m fine with my past, more or less. I ain’t proud of it, but it is what it is. But here and there, I just start rememberin’ the Deadlocks, or the less savory parts of Blackwatch. I fucked up a lot for awhile there, even when I tried to do something good.” He taps the cigarillo against his knee, keeping his gaze skyward. “Don’t get me wrong, my past is behind me and I’m happy enough now.  I don’t need to atone for anything at this point, I just want to keep fightin’ the good fight. Just sometimes I remember, is all, and then it’s hard to remember how I’m doin’ now.”

“I understand,” Hanzo says. McCree believes him. 

Hanzo hesitates for a minute, then nudges his knee against McCree’s. “If it is any consolation,” he says, “I consider the work you have done to be admirable. Not many men can admit their mistakes and atone as you have.”

As always, Hanzo’s compliments are so sudden and sincere that McCree is left blindsided. Before he can stop himself, he gets a hand around the back of Hanzo’s neck and pulls him in for a messy kiss. Hanzo goes willingly but is mostly passive under the sudden onset of McCree’s lips, his mouth soft and responsive to the hard presses and graceless movements of McCree’s own. He kisses Hanzo four, five, six times before he stops and rests his brow against Hanzo’s. 

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. 

Hanzo rests a hand over his, thumb stroking lightly over his skin. “You are welcome,” he murmurs. “It is nothing compared to how you have helped me overcome my own past.”

McCree chokes out a laugh. “We’re both just a couple of messes, aren’t we.”

“Perhaps. But less so than we may have been if we were not here.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” 

 

**V.**

“ _ Jeeeeesus _ H. Christ,” McCree groans at the first tentative thrust of Hanzo’s hips. He wraps his arms around Hanzo’s neck, tangling his hands in the man’s dark, sweat-damp hair. Above him, Hanzo pants with the effort of going slow, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as if in deep concentration. “Sweetheart, you are  _ killin’ _ me here.”

“I’ve barely begun,” Hanzo replies, smirking down at him. 

“Well shit, you could’ve fooled m--” McCree cuts off with a breathy moan as Hanzo rolls his hips, bottoming out all at once. “ _ Jesus _ , see, you’re gonna be the death of me before we’re done.” 

Hanzo leans down, his arms bracketing McCree’s shoulders, until their bodies are flush together. “Are you complaining?” he asks. His gravelly voice rumbles through McCree’s chest. His lips curve up in a wicked smile.

“Nope, no, not at all,” McCree replies, which earns him a breathless chuckle and Hanzo finally moving. McCree hitches his legs around Hanzo’s back, and a hand slides up the back of his thigh and lifts him higher off the bed, searching for a sweeter, deeper angle. 

Hanzo dips his head to mouth at the side of McCree’s neck, scraping skin with his teeth and following with flicks of his tongue. His thrusts are slow and deep, utterly indulgent, not the frenzied, focused act that McCree has come to associate with Hanzo. Hanzo’s hands slide along his skin, firm but delicate, in a way that could almost be called  _ worshiping.  _ “God, you’re so perfect,” McCree whispers, and gasps at the nip to his shoulder that follows. 

McCree tugs gently on Hanzo’s hair, pulling him up from the mark he’s almost certainly left on his neck, and meets his gaze. Hanzo’s eyes are half-lidded, dark brown turned black in the dim lighting. A fine sheen of sweat highlights the sharp lines of his face and his hair falls in his face, unbound from its usual stern ponytail. McCree is sideswiped by the sudden rush of affection that fills him, followed by the heart-stopping realization that he is, without a doubt, head-over-heels in love. 

“Jesse?” Hanzo prompts after he’s been staring for several seconds too long.

“Jesus, you’re gorgeous,” McCree whispers.

Hanzo stops, looking down at him with a crinkle in his brow as though the compliment were unwarranted. McCree seizes him with both hands on his face and drags him down for a searing kiss. Hanzo makes a surprised noise but follows, resuming his stride with ease. McCree’s too afraid to say the truth just yet, so he tries to convey it in the caress of his lips, the tender strokes of his tongue, the  _ pleases _ and  _ mores _ and  _ you’re so good, don’t ever stop _ that he moans into Hanzo’s mouth. 

It doesn’t last long, both quickly becoming too breathless to maintain a semblance of technique. Their mouths smear against each other in a botched attempt at a kiss, punctuated with expletives and wordless encouragements as they chase their peaks together. McCree is over the edge first, gasping nonsense endearments until his breath leaves him. As he comes down, he strokes across Hanzo’s shoulders and face, encouraging him on until his body tenses and he’s burying a groan in the pillow next to McCree’s head. 

They spend a moment catching their breath before they separate. Hanzo reaches over the bed for a discarded shirt--McCree’s, not his own, of course--and cleans them both up with careful, loving touches. Between the affection and the post-coital bliss, McCree feels like he’s suffocating with happiness. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but he wouldn’t trade a minute of it for anything.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he says, as Hanzo settles beside him on the bed, “but I’m damn glad I did it.”

Hanzo doesn’t reply, but the self-conscious smile he gives in return is answer enough.

 

**VI.**

Reality is a hazy, elusive subject, slipping through McCree’s fingers as he claws his way back toward consciousness. He hears the voices first, warbled and dull as though underwater: Angela’s sweet but professional soprano, followed by Hanzo’s displeased growl. Sterile white light seeps through the seam of his eyelids, drawing him further into wakefulness. He slowly opens his eyes, only to be blinded by the fluorescents overhead. His pained grunt draws the attention of his guests, stopping the conversation as effectively as a shout. 

“See? I told you he would be fine,” Angela says. The click of her heels announces her approach. “Jesse? How are you feeling?”

McCree groans in response. He opens his eyes again, slowly as to adjust to the lights. The familiar faces of Angela and Hanzo swim into view side-by-side: the former pleasantly concerned, the latter inscrutable. As his senses come back online bit by bit, he starts to recognize the starchy sheets under his back, the mechanical hum of medical equipment, and the pleasant buzz of morphine that is dampening the less-pleasant ache in the right side of his chest.

“Been better,” he replies, voice rasping with disuse. He coughs, trying to clear it with no avail. “Suspect I was worse before you got to me.” He experimentally flexes his hands and feels the tug of an IV taped to the back of his wrist. 

Angela sighs the sigh of an exasperated mother. “You were,” she says. “My staff could only do so much in the field, so you’ve earned yourself a stay in the medbay tonight. As for your arm . . .” 

She glances at McCree’s left side, drawing his gaze down. He experimentally wiggles the stump that used to have an advanced prosthetic attached, then groans. “Aw  _ hell _ no, not the arm. It was all broken in and everything!” he complains, slouching back against the mountain of pillows supporting him.

“Yes, well, it was crushed pretty thoroughly by one of the omnics in that fight,” Angela says. She pulls up a holographic display from her wrist module and taps through it idly. “Winston and I can have a new one made within the next two days, but you’ll have to do without until then. Perhaps this will teach you to be more careful?”

McCree grins. “Not a chance in hell, angel,” he replies. Angela smiles even as she rolls her eyes, but Hanzo is much less amused. His stern, displeased expression makes McCree sober quickly.

“Anyway,” Angela says, dismissing her display, “you are stable and should be good to go tomorrow morning. I will be back to check on the bio-bandages later tonight. Until then, Hanzo, you may stay.”

Hanzo dips his head in acknowledgement. Angela, looking satisfied, turns and clicks away, her heels echoing until the medbay door swoops shut behind her. 

McCree clears his throat again. “Well then. Not as bad as it--”

“You are an  _ idiot _ ,” Hanzo hisses. He crosses his arms, fingertips digging into his own biceps with reined-in anger. 

“Alright, well, that ain’t nothin’ new but--”

“You nearly died,” Hanzo interrupts again. He glares down at McCree, but something softer, more afraid, lingers in the wrinkle of his brow. “If Angela had not been there when she was, you would have. You were not careful enough and nearly paid the price for your idiocy.”

McCree starts to lift his left hand to run through his hair, only to remember that hand is currently scrap in parts unknown. He combs his other hand through instead, wincing. “Well, that’s what she’s there for. If she weren’t there, I think we’d’ve all died years ago, quite frankl--”

“And if I had not been there, they would have killed you both!” Hanzo shouts. McCree is stunned into silence. Hanzo grits his teeth and turns his head away. 

“They would have killed you,” he repeats, more softly. 

“Oh, darlin’,” McCree breathes. He reaches out his hand and tugs at the bottom of Hanzo’s shirt, the only thing he can reach without moving. “C’mere. No, c’ _ mere _ ,” he says again, when Hanzo looks like he’s going to bolt. He pulls, trying to get a better grip. Hanzo sways forward, then abruptly launches himself at McCree, seizing his face between both hands and kissing him fiercely. 

The kiss is neither sweet nor passionate, all bruising lips and hard teeth, fingertips gripping so tightly that McCree can feel the sharp bite of nails in his skin. The movement sends a wave of pain radiating through his chest from the raw bullet wound, making him groan, but Hanzo is undeterred and McCree makes no effort to stop him. Hanzo swings one leg up onto the bed, then the other, straddling McCree’s thighs without breaking away. McCree tilts his head back and lets Hanzo claim his mouth, riding the desperate thrusts of Hanzo’s tongue, the dig of teeth into his bottom lip, unable to do anything else but rest his remaining hand on Hanzo’s hip and wait out the fervor that has overtaken him. 

“Darlin’--” he tries, earning himself another crushing kiss.

“Shut up,” Hanzo growls, biting down on McCree’s lip until the taste of copper blooms between their mouths. His hands drop to McCree’s white medbay shirt, fists tight in the garment as though afraid to let go.

“ _ Darlin’, _ ” McCree says again, wedging his arm between them until he can grip Hanzo’s shoulder and ease him back. Surprisingly, Hanzo goes, slumping as though the fight has been abruptly drained from his body. He lowers his head until his brow hits McCree’s shoulder and stays there, face downturned, hands still clutching McCree’s shirt. McCree licks his lip, testing the shallow cut. It isn’t the first time a kiss has gotten a bit too enthusiastic between them, although never has it been driven by quite the same motivations. 

Hanzo is trembling faintly, a barely-perceptible tremor in his shoulders. McCree smooths his hand down Hanzo’s spine and up again, pressing firmly enough to feel every notch of his spine. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’m okay. I’ve taken worse than this and come out the other side still kickin’.” He presses a kiss to Hanzo’s graying temple, lingering as he breathes in the familiar scent of his hair. “I’m okay.”

“You nearly were not.”

“That happens in our line of work. It’s nothin’ new. You know that.”

Hanzo doesn’t respond for some time. When he does, his voice is flat and rough. “That does not change the fact that I nearly lost you.”

“I know,” McCree says soothingly. “The first couple times are always the worst. But you know me. I’ve been doing stupid shit for twenty years and got this far. ‘Sides, I like livin’ and I plan to keep on doin’ it. Especially now that I’ve got another reason to.”

Hanzo lifts his head at this. McCree smiles wearily. “Trust me, honey, I ain’t goin’ down anytime soon,” he says. “You and me just got started, and I’d like to see that through.”

Hanzo considers this for a long moment. Then, slow and careful, he leans in to brush a featherlight kiss to McCree’s lips: a warm, dry touch, the barest hint of pressure, a sweet noise in the back of his throat as he pulls away.

“As would I,” he murmurs. 

“Good. Then we’re in agreement.” McCree squeezes Hanzo’s hip affectionately. “We’ll watch each other’s backs, stay alive, and see this thing to the very end.”

The deep lines of fear etched into Hanzo’s features finally lighten, giving way to a soft, almost exasperated look. “As if I have not been saving you from your own inability to observe since the beginning,” he says. 

McCree chuckles. The ache of torn, healing muscle in his chest is rapidly being overshadowed by the swell of happiness underneath. “Yeah,” he says. “You’ve been good to me since the start.”


End file.
